Built Upon Sand
by Konstantya
Summary: Because sometimes someone can be so bad for you that they're just good enough. Ishara Yar, Lore, and the damage between.


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**Built Upon Sand  
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When the craft had entered orbit, and plunged through the atmosphere to land haphazardly in Coalition territory, their sensors hadn't picked up any signs of life, and so it was only a small team that had been assigned to investigate. Ishara trailed behind, bringing up the rear, and it was only when she heard phaser fire that she started running.

She came upon the scene just in time to see Bryant, his mouth open in surprise, his eyes wide with death, and his belly bubbling red. His assailant stood with his back to her, a man of medium height and slim build, dressed in nondescript black and brown. He jerked his blade free, and there was something about his hand—something like the blood on it was too bright, or the skin underneath it too pale—

Bryant slumped to the ground with a fatalistic _thump_, joining the unmoving bodies of Rosha and Dal, the rest of the survey team. She gripped her disruptor, aiming it at the man—and it was then that he turned, revealing a familiar, alabaster face and familiar, alabaster features.

She gasped in utter shock. "Data?"

He cocked his head at the name. She might have felt a pang of nostalgia upon seeing that little mannerism again, had there not been something distinctly menacing about it this time around. He started to saunter toward her, his curiosity apparently piqued, and drawled, "Now that's the first interesting thing anybody's said to me since I got here."

Blood still dripped from the blade in his hand, and against her will, she took a step back, trying to steady her aim. She was too slow, or he was too fast, but either way, the weapon was wrenched from her hands before she could fire. Disarmed and still reeling from the surreality of the situation, she started backing up in earnest, trying to keep what little distance was between them. Data—_Data?_—made a display of crushing the disruptor barrel with his bare hand, all too casually tossing the now-useless weapon over his shoulder. At that, instinct took over, and she turned to run, but she didn't even get two steps away before he grabbed her arm and yanked her back around. His knife pressed against the skin below her ear, and she froze, finding herself staring into a pair of pale yellow eyes. And sure enough, they were Data's eyes, but the smug cruelty behind them was anything but.

"Tell me," he said, his voice a smirking feint of friendliness, "how do you know my dear little brother?"

"Brother?" she breathed. The knife cut into her skin, and she flinched. She could feel a trickle of blood make its way down her neck and soak into the top of her shirt. The android looked at her chidingly.

"That wasn't an answer," he said.

"W-we met before. About a year ago. He was part of a mission to rescue two hostages from the Alliance."

"The Alliance," he repeated.

"The opposing cadre on this planet."

"Ah. And _your_ name?"

"I-Ishara."

"Ishara."

"Ishara Yar." He was still staring at her, too close, his knife still digging into her neck, and she went on, inanely. "My sister was in Starfleet. She served aboard the _Enterprise_—"

His brows twitched at that. "Yar," he said, and his eyes grew distant for a split second, as if he was accessing files or memories. "Oh, yes, the blonde spitfire." His eyes flicked over her face. "I suppose there's something of a family resemblance." And then, without warning, he let her go, so abruptly that she didn't even realize it until he was already brushing past her.

Carefully, she pressed a trembling hand to her neck—the wound was superficial, thankfully—and turned to watch him with wary eyes. He paced slowly, thoughtfully, and she was about to work up the courage to ask him when he had met her sister when he suddenly halted and turned back to her.

"My impulse engines failed, necessitating an emergency landing on this charming little hell-hole of yours," he explained. "I need a new driver coil before I can get off the ground again. Your little…_cadre"_—he spoke the word with a measure of patronizing indulgence—"wouldn't happen to have one, would it?"

She felt the blood under her fingers, thought about the three bodies on the ground behind her, and was proud when she managed something resembling a glare. "Even if we did, we wouldn't let _you_ have it."

He smiled then—a slow, sly quirk of the lips—and came to stand in front of her again, so close he was practically on top of her. "Well," he said, "we'll just have to see about that, now won't we?"

-  
>-o-<br>-

She felt like quite the spectacle upon her return to the Coalition headquarters, what with his knife once again at her neck, and his other hand pushing her in front of him, and everyone staring at them. Hayne's gaze darted from her, to her captor, then back to her. His brow furrowed, and he started to ask, "Isn't that—?"

"No," she said, very seriously, hoping she could convey just how very much this _wasn't_ Lt. Commander Data of Starfleet by just the tone of her voice. "It isn't."

"So you're the poor sap in charge of this place?" the android said.

Hayne gave him a suspicious once-over. "You could say that."

"I need a driver coil," he said without preamble.

"…I'm assuming the craft our sensors picked up is yours then?"

The android smiled insidiously and nodded.

Hayne paused a moment to take this in. He glanced dismissively at her, perhaps trying to downplay her importance, and raised his chin challengingly. "Assuming we have one to give to you, what do we get in return?"

"Why, your lives!" he said, as if it should have been obvious. "Your pathetic, petty little lives. Which is more than you insipid humans deserve, I should add." After a beat, he continued offhandedly, "Should that prove insufficiently motivating, I can always pay a visit to your hostile little neighbors and offer to hack into your systems mainframe in exchange for the part."

_"Hayne,"_ she said, just a bit urgently, because she had no doubt in her mind that he was capable of doing such a thing.

Hayne's eyes flicked between them again. He seemed to weigh the options before jerking his chin at a fellow cadre member. The man disappeared into the complex, and Hayne turned back. He took a breath and assumed the air of a polite businessman. "You'll have your driver coil within the hour, Mister…"

"Lore," the android offered with a smile.

Hayne nodded in acknowledgement. Lore, Data's brother, indulgently inclined his head in turn, and the deal was finalized.

"And now that that's settled," Hayne went on, "I kindly ask that you release our comrade."

"Oh, no," he said, drawing her just a little bit closer. "I think I'll hold onto her for now. For insurance, you know."

-  
>-o-<br>-

He'd tied her to a rail in the engine room.

Not right away, of course. For the first forty-five minutes or so they'd waited on the ramp of his ship. It was only when the driver coil had been delivered, and he'd chased off her comrades, that he dragged her inside with him to the engine room.

"But you got what you wanted," she'd tried to argue. "You don't need me anymore."

"Yes, I got what I wanted, but I still have repairs to do, and I can't say I trust your little gang of hooligans to leave me alone to complete them. Nor do I trust you to just sit still in the event I have to turn my back to you."

He'd already started to secure her wrists to the rail, and in a situation that had spiraled further and further out of her control, the only thing she could think to say was, "Wait! At least tie me to the bottom, so I can sit on the floor!"

He'd rolled his eyes in that arrogant way of his. "You humans and your weak staminas," he muttered, but he'd jerked her arms down just as she'd requested.

That had been four hours ago.

" 'Father McKenzie/Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear/No one comes near,' " he sang. " 'Look at him working/Darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there/What does he care?' "

She couldn't help but stare, just a little. In the short time she'd known him, he'd shown himself to be violent, unpredictable, and now, eccentric.

"A very old Earth song," he explained, looking over to her. He cocked his head, amusement playing about his lips. "You seem surprised."

She shrugged noncommittally and simply noted, "You're very different from your brother." It was true enough, after all.

"Ah. And you know so much about my dear, darling brother?"

Coolly, she looked off to the side. "Not really. We only met the once."

"And yet it seems he left quite an impression on you." Leaving off what he was working on for the moment, he strolled over to her. He crouched down, balancing on his boot toes in a way that was no doubt intended to emphasize his grace, and peered at her closely. "Tell me, why is that?"

Resolutely, she kept her gaze averted, instead deciding to concentrate on her bound hands. She sat sideways, her arms awkwardly pulled over to one side of her body because she hadn't wanted to keep her back to him, and she gave them a few experimental twists. It was a futile attempt at escape—he'd tied the knots too well, and she knew it—but it was as good a distraction as any.

At her silence, he began to speculate. "Perhaps you developed some…affection for him. A…sexual attraction, for instance—"

"He was a _friend,"_ she snapped, glaring defiantly. She flicked her head back to her hands and muttered, "The closest thing I ever had to one, at least."

"And?" he prompted.

She very stubbornly resumed her silence.

He reached out and took hold of her chin. "There's more to your little story," he said, forcing her to look back at him, "and I want to know what it is. So I'll ask you again: _And?"_

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his. The fingers against her chin were dreadfully firm. She'd seen that same hand crumple a disruptor like a mere piece of paper, and she had no doubt that he could shatter her jaw just as easily. Probably wouldn't even need more than his thumb and forefinger to do so.

"Mind you," he murmured, the pressure of his fingers increasing in what was very likely a literally calculated manner, "I'll know if you're lying. I can feel your pulse and sense your temperature. To say nothing of your breathing, and how it's gone shallow in fear," he added. Nervously, she swallowed.

"…And I used him," she finally whispered. "Betrayed him."

He stared at her for a very long moment, his face completely unreadable, and just when she suspected he was going to break her neck or crush her windpipe—

He simply stood up and left the room.

-  
>-o-<br>-

Approximately fifteen minutes later, he returned—with a small plate of bread in one hand and a cup of water in the other. Almost elegantly, he lowered himself to the floor in front of her, settling cross-legged.

She eyed him, and then the food, suspiciously. "What's that for?"

"I'm told," he said, with a bored sort of disdain, "that you organics require sustenance." He set the water off to the side, picked up a roll, tore off a piece, and held it out to her mouth.

She looked at the bread, and then back up to him, trying to read his expression or else decipher his intentions. His face was so oddly sincere—for the first time, so oddly like his brother's—one eyebrow quirked a little expectantly, that she almost wanted to believe there was some sort of kindness behind the gesture. Because the truth was, she _was_ hungry. Food was rarely in abundance on the planet, and while cadre members were generally better off than civilians, the last thing she'd had to eat had been a bit of soup for breakfast. It was now early evening. Perhaps he'd heard her stomach growling.

Perhaps he'd heard her stomach growling and just wanted the noise to stop.

Very carefully, she took a hesitant sniff, and then took the piece of bread in her mouth, warily watching him as she chewed and swallowed.

"It isn't poisoned," he assured her dryly. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd simply finish what I started on your neck."

Well, there was the slightest bit of comfort in that, she supposed. He offered her another bite, and, feeling a little removed from herself, she accepted it.

They sat in silence after that, he quietly feeding her and she quietly eating, and then, when she was finished, he stood up and resumed his work without a word or a backwards glance.

-  
>-o-<br>-

Two hours later, he was done with his repairs.

He walked past her, barely breaking stride to give her bindings one quick, precise slice with his knife. "Go," he said. "Get out of here."

Caught off guard by his abruptness, she struggled to bring herself to her feet. She flexed her hands and rubbed her wrists a little, trying to soothe the now-sore skin, and looked over at him. He was bent over a console, doing last-minute checks, and, as far as she could tell, had sincerely meant she was free to go. Carefully, still keeping an eye on him, she made her way to the door, half-way expecting it to be a trick or a trap of some sort. But for all intents and purposes, he didn't even appear to be acknowledging her existence anymore.

She turned, was just about to high-tail it out of the room and off of the ship, back to her life and back to the Coalition, when she suddenly stopped short and turned back around.

He was still bent over the console, and she watched him, her heart pounding with possibility.

"Take me with you," she suddenly said.

He snorted, and didn't even bother to raise his eyes from the computer readings. "Give me one good reason why I should."

Because, the truth was, sometimes she _did_ want an escape from the cadres. Because the _Enterprise_ had been too clean, too kind, and its promise of a fresh start too good to be true. Because she didn't trust him, and he didn't trust her, and there was a certain amount of safety in that, because without trust there was no risk of betrayal. There were a hundred reasons, but the one that came out was:

"Because I asked you to."

He actually laughed at that, a sharp, derisive sound, and pushed himself back from the console. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, planted his hands on his hips, and finally looked over at her. "Because you asked me to," he said. "Because I'm such a Good Samaritan." He walked over, so that he was standing right in front of her, close enough so that the fabric of their clothes was almost touching, leaned down until his nose was mere centimeters from hers. His eyes, those unnatural yellow eyes, bore into hers, and his voice lowered to a bitter sneer. "As if I'd do it out of the kindness of my synthetic, silicon heart."

And then she did something she had never dared to do with Data, because Data had been sweet and innocent and far too good for her: She kissed him, full on the mouth. Took his cheeks right in her hands, and pressed her lips right against his.

"Then do it because we're both such Bad Samaritans," she whispered upon pulling back. He actually looked dumb-founded by what she'd just done, and his gaze kept flicking between her eyes and her mouth. Finally, he got a hold of himself and managed to school his features into something like contempt.

"You're out of your mind," he scoffed.

"So are you," she shot back.

And as if to prove it, he kissed her again, and didn't complain when she didn't leave.

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><p>AN: LORE/ISHARA, FTW. Because what anyone else would call a hostage situation qualifies as a first date for them. (Oh, you guys. You're so deliciously fucked up.)

I'm kind of surprised I couldn't find even one story with this pairing. Like, anywhere. I mean, okay, yeah, it's admittedly pretty cracky, and neither characters get what you'd call a lot of screen-time, but it's like the dark flip-side of Data/Tasha! Which is popular enough, so. Anyway.

In case it wasn't obvious, the verse Lore sings is from "Eleanor Rigby," by The Beatles, which I also don't own, and which, yes, is supposed to be thematically relevant. (I have to say, I rather love the idea that Lore knows, and even sings snippets from, all these old songs. It's quirky as fuck. It's like, if he ever gave Data shit about his Sherlock Holmes cosplay, all Data would have to do is look at the computer of Lore's ship and be like, "You have the entire soundtrack to _Grease_ queued up. You are not one to talk.")

Anyway, enough of my silly head-canon. Thanks for reading!

**EDIT:** This story now has a sequel! Check it out, if you're so inclined. It's called Castles!


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